"Aggie expected to get the coat done before our guest came," said St. John, with a smile. "If you are at all particular, I'll put it on with the needle sticking in it, and she can finish it after you are gone. But I am accustomed to sitting in my shirt-sleeves."
"So am I," was my reply; and, accordingly, I pulled off my own coat, and sat in my shirt-sleeves, too. In the act, my cigar-case fell out of my pocket.
"Light a cigar, sir, if you like," said St. John, with a brisk assumption of the airs of a genial host; "my wife don't allow me to smoke, but my guests always do. She is fond of cigars, is Aggie."
The little wife looked up with a demure and childlike air.
"He never offers to smoke, sir," said she, "because"—
"Because I can't afford it," put in St. John. "I was a great smoker in college; but those were my wild days. Thank you."
The last remark was in acknowledgment of an offered cigar. We were soon puffing great cloud-wreaths toward the ceiling, and an air of restraint that had rested on us at first, despite our efforts to avoid it, was speedily vanished. Cigars are social.
"And now, sir," said St. John, "you shall hear the story I promised you. I hope it wont bore you."
"If it does I'll cry out," said I.